


Banana

by yeaka



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Hyrule Warriors
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 21:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10839603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Ghirahim’s picky with his coffee.





	Banana

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Legend of Zelda or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“...And then she took out her _whip_ of all things, and actually brandished it in my face, as though she could scare me into submission! _Me_! Can you believe such nonsense?”

As Ghirahim is entirely made up of nonsense, Volga can believe it. He grunts noncommittally, as he usually does in these situations. As much as it would probably bode well for him to just agree with Ghirahim’s ever word, Ghirahim’s insufferable enough as it is without any more of an over-inflated ego, and Volga has no wish to gossip about their boss. Instead, he just bears Ghirahim’s myriad of complaints while they turn off the street and through the glass doors of _Ravio’s_ , into a garish purple space littered with secondhand tables. Volga still doesn’t understand why they have to come all the way here when they’ve got a coffee machine in their break room.

Or rather, he doesn’t understand why he agreed to come along for once. He almost _never_ understands Ghirahim, but usually he just lets it slide, because he’d rather not give anyone else in the office the time of day, and he needs _someone_ to pull into the supply closet when he runs too hot. He knows that as loud as Ghirahim is, he’ll never find anyone with a more talented tongue. 

Then they reach the counter, and Volga thinks he understands the detour. The realization comes with a silent slab of fury and jealousy, which he tries to stamp down—he knew Ghirahim was an insatiable flirt when they started.

Sure enough, Ghirahim flamboyantly flicks his hair out of his eyes and winks at the cute blond behind the counter, all but purring, “Is that a new tunic? And here I thought you looked so dashing in the green one.”

The blond, dressed in a purple shirt and a blue scarf wrapped once around his shoulders, looks utterly unimpressed with Ghirahim’s presence. His clear blue eyes remain deadpanned, his plush lips neither smiling nor frowning. He’s incredibly attractive, even with his poor attitude, but Volga knows better than to even consider threesomes—he doesn’t want to open that can of worms when Ghirahim’s already such a handful.

Ghirahim whips a steel mug out of his bag despite the complete lack of response. He slides it across the counter, arching _just so_ and straining again with a subtle flourish. He may as well be throwing himself across the counter. Blondie’s expression doesn’t change. Then Ghirahim pokes out his tongue to run slowly along his lips, and Volga just wants to hide his face in his hands. 

The blond finally flickers into a look of annoyance and taps the register, where the price is displayed in neon green letters. Ghirahim must be a regular; the blond doesn’t ask what drink he wants. Ghirahim rolls his eyes and sighs, “Alright, alright,” then fishes a handful of rupees out of his pocket. He forks over a blue one, ignoring the green-filled tip jar. As soon as the register’s beeped its acceptance of the fee, Blondie looks at Volga.

He doesn’t ask what Volga wants. Volga stares at him for an extra few seconds, waiting for it, then finally grunts, “Strawberry smoothie.” Ghirahim snorts, and Volga shoots him a glare. When Volga only reaches for change instead of a cup, the blond picks up a paper one and starts writing on it with a pen. He pauses to look up expectantly. 

Ghirahim says before Volga can, “Volga. And mine’s Ghirahim, in case you’ve forgotten. That’s seven-five-two—”

Volga quickly elbows Ghirahim in the ribs before he can finish the number, and Ghirahim smirks back, which is somehow even more annoying than if he’d fought. But then, he’s said before he finds Volga’s jealousy quite amusing, even though Volga thinks he’s not that jealous. At least, not that much more than anyone else would be with Ghirahim for a boyfriend.

The blond taps the register again. Volga searches for a name tag, doesn’t find one, and winds up just silently passing over a blue rupee and allocating one for the tip jar. On closer inspection, a piece of paper divides it into two sides, one of which says, ‘vote for deku nuts,’ the other, ‘vote for Korok seeds.’ As Volga likes neither, he opts for the Korok side, because he knows Ghirahim loves deku nuts and he’s feeling spiteful. 

When an ambling Goron wanders up behind them, Ghirahim tugs Volga by the elbow over to the other side of the counter, where a black-haired boy that could be Blondie’s twin is happily making their drinks. He whistles while he works, swaying about in his purple sweater with a striped blue scarf. Volga can’t help but wonder if they’re brothers, then desperately hopes Volga didn’t drag him here to finagle some kind of foursome. Maybe he could’ve managed with Blondie after all, but this kid looks like Volga could eat him alive. He pops Ghirahim’s mug onto the counter first, chirping, “Here you are, Mr. Demon Lord!”

Volga lifts his brow at Ghirahim, who accepts the drink and title without batting an eyelash. At least some of Volga’s annoyance dissipates as he watches Ghirahim languidly lick the foam off the sides of his lid.

Volga’s drink takes a little longer, but at least the blare of the blender prevents Ghirahim from griping or flirting more. Except that Ghirahim doesn’t seem to have much interest at all in the black-haired worker and instead keeps tilting back to eye Blondie. Blondie utterly ignores Ghirahim, while Volga stands there and seethes. 

Then the barista making his drink pushes a tall pink smoothie across the counter with a straw and lid at the side. He calls, “And here you are, Mr. Dragon!” Volga blinks, because he can clearly see where ‘Vohlgah’ is written on the side of his drink. The barista takes no notice and tells him, “Thank you for your patronage, and please come back soon!”

Volga mutters a disgruntled, “Sure,” and takes his drink. He feels suddenly self-conscious about the little horns poking out of his hair. Then he reminds himself that his transformation’s at least better than Ghirahim’s, and he has nothing to be embarrassed about. Besides, both baristas are clearly Hylian, and they can’t transform into anything.

Ghirahim leads the way back outside, to Volga’s relief—he was hoping he wouldn’t have to sit down inside and suffer Ghirahim eyeing up the competition. But then, they do have a job to get back to, and Volga knows that Cia’s whip isn’t just for display.

As soon as they’re on the sidewalk, Ghirahim thrusts his cup towards Volga and demands, “Blow on it.”

Instead of asking ‘why,’ Volga grunts, “No.”

“They always make it too cold,” Ghirahim whines.

“So why do you go there, then?” He realizes too late that he knows why and doesn’t want to hear it.

Ghirahim just scowls and hisses, “Volga, you _will_ blow on it, or so help me, I’ll—”

Annoy him to death, most likely. So Volga spits a spark of fire at the bottom of Ghirahim’s cup, and the silver finish lights under the steam. Ghirahim’s glove-covered fingers don’t seem at all bothered by the heat, and his face flickers into a smug delight. He purrs, “Thank you.” He’s instantly back to pleasant company, but he’s always been a roller coaster.

With a tired sigh, Volga loops his arm around Ghirahim’s waist, and they head back before Cia can have their hides.


End file.
